There was a pool of something wet down below, but it wasn’t acid. Ubik knew all the different acrid smells that accompanied each of the caustic liquids that appeared in the junkyard, and this didn’t smell like any of them. It didn’t smell like anything, because it was water.

He landed in a loud splash that soaked him to his waist before he hit the ground. It helped slow him down and saved his ankles from a nasty shock. He looked up and caught the ball falling towards him. The timer flashed 00:00.

High above, the scav was perched on a beam. He was probably bracing for impact. Obviously not rocking an organic brain implant.

There was a shaft to Ubik’s left, just within reach. He scrambled up the wall and pulled himself through. It wasn’t tall enough to stand, but he could crouch and move at a reasonably fast pace. The light from his goggles showed a long, straight tunnel he didn’t recognise. It seemed to be part of another structure, perhaps the interior of a building that had lived beyond its usefulness, a chimney, a water pipe, a connecting tunnel for prefab biodomes, who could say?

He ran for twenty seconds and then the tunnel pinched in the middle where the walls on either side had been pushed together by whatever external forces had been shoved at them. Ubik couldn’t get through without losing a serious amount of weight but he had other ways to make himself fit into small gaps.

There was a splash behind him. His uninvited guest had decided to join the party. Ubik pulled out a hydraulic jack from his backpack. It was very light, about the size of his forearm, and looked like something you might find in a child’s toy toolbox. It was actually a heavy duty piece of emergency equipment for getting people out of crashed vehicles. He stuck it in the gap and hit the button.

It snapped open from a straight line into a diamond shape, widening the gap and making the tunnel shake. Bits fell off around Ubik. but there was no time to assess the stability of his escape route. There was only time to escape, if that.

He managed to squeeze through and reclaim his jack. There was no way to return the gaping hole to its original size, but the scav was a lot bigger than him and might not be able to get through. He probably had a way to make the hole even bigger, using his bare hands most likely, but there was always the chance that might bring the whole place down around his ears.

Ubik ran on into the darkness with only the light just ahead of him for guidance. He could quite easily end up trapped with nowhere to go but back. There were endless tunnels down here under the garbage, but they didn’t necessarily go anywhere. Ubik had carefully mapped out the useful routes that allowed him to get around the junkyard unseen, and had done his best to have an awareness of where there were other tunnels in case of emergencies (like this one) but there was no way to know them all. He was relying on a little luck this time, which was not a position he enjoyed being in.

The tunnel widened and then he was able to stand upright. Perfect timing as the way forward was blocked by a sheer wall of junk, but there was a crack of daylight above. How big of a crack, he couldn’t say.

There was no sign of his pursuer, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still back there. It was highly unlikely the presence of a scav team had anything to do with him, but now that he had given them a bloody nose, they would most likely not give up until they had found him and beaten him to a pulp. He had acted foolishly and rashly and had no one to blame but himself, but that was fairly normal. It would have been okay to make them a little mad, but he had made them really mad. Really mad could get you killed.

Ubik began climbing, quickly scrambling up the many handholds. The one thing that was guaranteed when climbing junk was that there would be many handholds. You might not like what it was your hand was holding, but that was okay. You didn’t need to hold it for very long.

As he approached the top, the light grew brighter. The crack was big enough for him to climb through, he just hoped there was no one waiting to help him out. It would be very upsetting to have gone through all this effort only to be met by the people he was trying to get away from. That kind of smugness wasn’t fun to be around.

He popped his head out and was relieved to see no one, not even any drones. His fingers were hanging on the lip of the opening. He let go of one hand and stretched out his arm, looking for something to grab. Vertical surfaces always had handholds, horizontal ones tended to be beaten flat.

He hooked his fingertips onto something and pulled himself forward. He had a strong grip and powerful wrists — twisting rusted lugnuts off a particle accelerator was excellent strength training. He got his other hand up and swung up one foot.

With a mighty, “Hnnng!” he threw himself up and over, rolling onto his back. He lay there for a second, breathing hard. Then he opened his eyes as he felt the ground under him tremble. He scrambled to his feet and ran as the ground collapsed and dropped away.

Ubik threw himself forward and grabbed a swinging washing machine door hanging open. It was an industrial one, used to clean hundreds of clothes at a time, so it held his weight. Beneath his dangling feet was a hole falling away into darkness. If the scav was still alive down there, he’d be really, really mad.

Ubik made it back home through a hatch in the roof. He didn’t like to use that entrance because it was too noticeable, but speed was more important than discretion right now.

He fell into the room, his Delgados landing solidly on the top of his trusty bed-table.

The ten by ten by ten cube that had been his base of operations and his bedroom for the last ten years was just as he’d left it. He wondered what would happen to it once he was gone. Good thing he wasn’t the sentimental type of he might have shed a tear over it.

There were machines and electronic devices of all kinds here. None of it was new, and he’d often had problems powering it all, but he could still access the net, intercept broadcast signals, build his own circuit boards and punch rivets in sheet metal. And that was just in one corner.

Ubik had no interest in what was going on in the rest of the quadrant. War and politics and important treaties, none of it affected him. Whoever was in charge at the moment was doing a terrible job, no doubt, but no worse than whoever did the job before and whoever would do if after. Access to the wealth of information available on the net had allowed him to teach himself to be a damn good tronic tech. There were videos on every aspect of engineering, even those the large companies didn’t want you to know. Ubik had gleaned several lifetimes worth of knowledge from the net, now he had to put it to some use. But not here.

He emptied his bag on the table and sorted through the dozens of implants he had found that morning. He quickly separated the ones that looked like they were still intact and then tested them with a signal detector. Only one of them was still capable of holding a signal.

He stripped it down to its core components and removed the tiny circuit board which was barely visible. He took out a small box from his iron chest and opened it. Inside the box was a signal booster attached to a transponder he had built from scratch. The chip inside it was from a missile, used by mining companies to split open space rocks, or something.

The circuit board slotted into the transponder with no problem. New products changed on the outside — new screen, different shaped buttons, access ports on the left instead of the right — but inside, things were built the same, so as to make it as easy as possible for the manufacturer. If you’re still using the same processor as you were last year and the year before, might as use the same connecting system. Not that they would admit it. Ubik was fine if they voided his warranty.

It would be best to test the device was working, but he didn’t know how much juice it had. He didn’t want it to cut out halfway through, and he trusted his skills.

He grabbed the stuff he knew he would always need. Basic tools, some useful devices that were illegal to own, and Grandma’s soul box. Everything else was either too heavy or he could build again from scratch.

Then he took one final look around, opened a hatch in the floor and jumped in.

Professional scavs. Why today of all days? Ubik had no desire to fight them and no chance of winning if he did. Their equipment looked top notch. Goggles with full spectrum vision. Adjustable face masks with built-in oxygen packs. Augmented braces on their arms and legs to allow them to move quicker and stronger. They were decked out more like a military unit.

All brand new, the latest design. Ubik could tell from a glance that nothing was very likely to break from age or overuse. His only hope was that the software was so new it might crash. New gear always suffered from unoptimised software until the second or third update patch.

Ubik ran. He had the home ground advantage, but they had every other advantage. All of them.

What did they want? There was plenty to share. It wasn’t like Ubik was the type to keep everything for himself. They were welcome to help themselves. But their focus was decidedly on him.

He had the communicators, and he hadn’t even taken all of them. He’d picked up a couple of fuel cells, but they were common as muck. No way that was what they were after.

Did they just plan to teach him a lesson? Release a little tension by beating the snot out of a competitor? His childhood on the streets of Epsilon City had taught him that big men liked to prove their power by stamping on the faces of anyone who was smaller than them. They usually received applause for the display of prowess, and if they were on the police force, a regular wage.

Ubik could have gone that way, used his skills to power his revenge. Big men looked a lot smaller when faced with the true power of technology. Organics could turn anyone into a beast. Electronics could too, if they were used right.

These yahoos were kitted out in the finest electronics currently available (obsolete in three to six months). It would be their undoing.

He could hear them whoop and holler as they gave chase. This was fun to them, their morning’s entertainment. No sign of any drones, which meant this was a sanctioned group, here on official business. To pick up something that shouldn’t have been thrown out, perhaps, or something that was smuggled out via a junk ship, to be collected when no one was looking. Could the devices in his bag be what they were looking for? He could dump them and hope it gave him the chance to escape, but he didn’t have time to mess around.

They might be pros, but he was a goddam genius.

Ubik made it to the top of a small mountain of crumpled robot legs. He had no idea what they had come from, robots that now had brand new legs, presumably. The gradient slowed his escape so his hunters were able to catch up. They would have caught him anyway, he was merely making it quicker for them. They wouldn’t stop to think why he would do that, they would assume he was an idiot and that they were the geniuses. Wrong.

Ubik turned and threw a handful of shiny discs down at his pursuers. They were busy fighting with each other in an attempt to get to him first. They probably had a bet going to see who could make the kill, just to make things interesting for themselves. When the discs struck them, they paused, mildly alarmed.

The kind of gear they were employing was very accurate and able to identify the composition of an object in less than a standard second. What it was less good at was being able to understand how a seemingly inert substance might react when combined with another seemingly inert object.

Mixing two properties to find a third was a lost art these days.

Sodium was explosive when exposed to water. Chlorine was highly toxic. Put them together and you got table salt. It worked the other way around, too.

Ubik stuck the red rod in the top of the mound and flipped the lid. The buttons he’d thrown all popped. The electronics around them went dead.

Brass had an unusual property that not many people knew about. It was an old metal amalgam that no one used these days, except maybe for buttons on fancy military outfits. When vibrated at the correct frequency, it powered down fuel cells. Not all types, just the modern ones that were currently the most popular. The brass absorbed the energy, and then it exploded.

The explosion wasn’t dangerous, just a toy pop gun loud. The loss of power could be fatal.

“No power,” shouted one of the scavs.

“Dead tronics,” called out another.

Two were on the ground, unable to move. Their implants had been fitted directly into their muscles, leaving them crippled, at least until they found a way to recharge.

But one scav remained standing. He didn’t look affected at all. In fact, he looked stronger now than he had a second ago. His body looked bigger and his hair was standing on end from some kind of static discharge.

An organic. Why would anyone send an organic to a junkyard? Didn’t they have something better to do with their time?

Ubik decided it would be impolite to ask and ran down the other side of Mount Rubbish.

He heard the footsteps crunching metal into scrap behind him. It was obviously a strength-type organic, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have additional augmentations. Flying, telepathy, firing eye-lasers… if you’re going to send an organic to pick up junk, why not send a military grade assassin?

It made no sense, but that was because Ubik wasn’t familiar with the ways of modern society. He was more of a stay at home type.

Downhill was quicker if you allowed gravity to do the work for you. Ubik had the cloth out and dived onto it. He skidded towards the rusted remains of a boat, half-sticking out like it was in the middle of capsizing.

Ubik jumped, leaving his cloth to carry on without him. It was a useful tool that he’d had for a while, but needless emotional attachments would only get you killed. Repair and recycle, yes. Cling beyond reason, no.

He landed in the middle of the boat’s rotting skeleton and ran, barely keeping his balance. There was a deep shaft here, one he hadn’t explored completely yet. Now seemed as good a time as any. He jumped into the hole without checking for obstructions.

The shaft was a vertical drop but wide enough for Ubik to touch the sides with hands and feet. It enabled him to slow his fall. He looked down to see if he was about to impale himself. Then he looked up and saw red goggle-lenses bearing down on him. The goggles weren’t working anymore, so the red glow had to be coming from his eyes.

The scav had jumped in head-first and was dropping free-fall. Gravity had taken sides, and it wasn’t on Ubik’s.

Ubik pulled in his arms and legs and plummeted.

“I don’t know what you want,” Ubik shouted up. “I don’t have anything. Here, have this explosive device.” He threw a ball towards the red-eyed pursuer.

Ubik didn’t have any explosive devices, but the scav didn’t know that. He twisted and slammed against the shaft walls in panic.

The ball didn’t shoot past him, of course, it fell at the same rate he did. It had green numbers counting down on it. Ubik had found people considered numbers counting down to be very upsetting, especially if you shouted, “Bomb!” first.

While the scav slammed and smashed to a stop, clinging to the walls, letting the ball fall away, Ubik looked down and waited to see where he was going to end up.

Ubik didn’t expect to get away unnoticed. There was no way to avoid all the drones, and they weren’t dumb enough to all go investigate a loud noise. Things collapsed or exploded all the time. Acid ate its way through metal, fibreglass and polycarbon, creating collisions and igniting fires. The drones dealt with them without making a fuss.

Ubik preferred to deal with as few drones as possible and splitting them up was his strategy for making sure he wasn’t targeted from multiple directions.

He ran without looking back, knowing he was being followed. There was a buzzing sound up and to the left. Possibly two of them.

His home wasn’t just a mound of trash, it consisted of valleys and pits, also. Occasionally, a shift in weight would bring a large hole into existence where none had existed before. It wasn’t too hard to recognise where the weaknesses were — you could feel the ground give as you ran over it. Speed was Ubik’s friend, and often his saviour. Strength was a fine attribute to have in life, but speed kept you alive and in the race.

There was a whirring as the tasers prepared to discharge. He had nothing to protect himself from being hit. There were ways to counter the hi-focus beam aimed at his back, but they were generally too heavy to be practical. Perhaps if he was bigger and stronger, but then he wouldn’t be running, he would be standing and fighting, which would only lead to him attracting more drones. A poor strategy.

A crack in the ground was open in front of him. A crevasse formed between two heavily compressed areas of domestic appliances, split open like a knife had been slashed through a carcass.

Ubik leapt off one foot, soaring through the air and then he plummeted straight down.

A loud crack behind him indicated the electric discharge had hit the ground instead of him. The targeting system on these drones wasn’t exactly sophisticated. It would lock onto its target — in this case, him — and fire in a straight line. If an object came in between them, it would take the hit, assuming the timing was right.

Heat-seeking projectiles would be available in the next model, arriving next week. He had seen the manifest when he intercepted the weekly security update — the security of which needed updating most of all.

The new drones would fire darts that would follow you up and down and all around. The new model cost less than these ones, if you bought in bulk. Progress.

Ubik hit the ground at the bottom of the artificial chasm with a splash. Acid pools were the other problem he faced as batteries leaked and units broke apart. Highly corrosive liquids were a common component of many modern appliances. They weren’t the most efficient or safest methods of powering units, but they were cheap for equipment you didn’t expect to use long anyway.

Ubik’s shoes were the one item he spent money on. He needed good quality footwear that was both light and durable. He couldn’t afford not to buy the best. Delgado Footwear, a reliable name in an unreliable galactic market. Built to last, for collectors of vintage concepts and ideas.

Acid splashed up, stinging his cheeks. His hands were gloved and his eyes were protected by the goggles, but there were chinks in any armour. His clothes were covered in tiny holes where acid had burnt through, but the damage was minimal if you kept running.

He darted through the little canyon in the rubbish. The drones had spotted where he went but were flying over the surface, reluctant to get trapped inside a heavily metallic area and lose signal. Once they lost contact with their central processor, they would drop dead. Online or no-line was their credo.

The fissure he was running through was twice as tall as him. Climbing out was possible, but it would take time, leaving him an easy target. Fortunately, he was familiar with this particular opening. He made it his business to regularly explore E4-J when no drops were due and the drones were recharging. Know yourself, know your enemy, and definitely know your own backyard.

Ubik’s base of operation wasn’t known to the authorities — who would choose to live inside garbage? — and he managed to stay off their radar by not appearing too often. And also because he had a small jammer to prevent detection by the central processor’s long-distance surveillance system.

He was being a bit reckless today, but time was running out. He had to take a few chances if he wanted to catch his ride off this world.

At the end of this small canyon was a hole. It was barely big enough to allow passage if you got on your stomach and crawled. The acid on the ground made that inadvisable.

Ubik was prepared. He pulled out a cloth from his back pocket and threw it on the ground in front of him.

As soon as it unfolded to its full size — about as big as a small towel — it stiffened and became a tray.

Ubik threw himself on top of it, landing on his stomach. He shot through the hole, riding on the acid surf.

Momentum could only take him so far. The tunnel was just big enough for him to get his hands on the roof above and then bending at the elbows, allowing him to punt himself forward when he slowed, the light from his goggles illuminating just enough of what was ahead to keep him from smashing his face into jutting metal pipes.

The drones could have followed him if they wanted to, easily small enough to fit through the opening. They would have lost signal, though. They let him go.

Ubik had already tested this tunnel as a prospective escape route, so he knew where it exited. He shot out of the other end and sailed through the air. The ground was only a few metres below him, he just needed to make sure he didn’t drop into a pool of acid.

He landed on his knees, which were protected by knee pads, and snapped his sled back into a cloth. He put it in his pocket and checked for signs of drones. The sky was empty, for now.

A simple and uneventful expedition. Compared to most days, today had been a little more frantic, but well within his means to deal with. He had managed to lose his pursuers and was free to sneak back to his base. He might even have time to pick up a few more items.

This area was all hills and valleys. You had to watch out for the occasional garbage avalanche, but it was much easier to avoid detection here. Ubik quickly sought out cover and headed towards the nearest tunnel back to his bunker, perusing his surroundings with a practised eye. Ubik had a lot to do now that he had the components he needed, and not much time to do it in.

He stayed low and moved quietly. The entrance he was heading for was close by. Once he was in the tunnels, he would be safe.

Ubik moved a sheet of metal that had probably belonged to a land vehicle of some kind. It looked like a door with a window. Underneath was a hole leading straight down.

Normally, it would have looked dark and uninviting, but today it was even more so. As Ubik peered into the gloom, he could see jagged metal crisscrossing the shaft, preventing passage.

The occasional collapse was to be expected. Nothing stayed the same very long in E4-Jericho, or anywhere on Epsilon-416. Permanence was not a Silon virtue.

Inconvenient, but nothing to worry about — it just meant he would have to try the next tunnel. Or the one after that.

He turned around to get his bearings. A dark, foreboding figure stood on the hill opposite, flanked by shorter but no less threatening associates.

“I saw you picked up some nice trinkets back there,” said the tallest figure. He took out a metal pole and rested the end on his shoulder, letting it bounce up and down. “I hope you were planning to share.”

The others pulled out weapons of their own, batons and tasers, a few knives. They came running down the hill towards Ubik.

Ubik stuck his head out of a shaft he had discovered when he was twelve years old. It was a little snug now, but he had a scrawny body with hardly any fat, and muscles that weren’t the kind that bulged when he flexed, more wiry and taut, so he was still able to squirm through the myriad tunnels under the rubbish plains.

There was a layer of dust cloud in every direction, as there always was after a drop. It would settle down again in a few minutes. Overhead, the Merlin Vance’s engines screamed an ear-splitting farewell as it rose into the atmosphere. Ubik could just make out the glowing green and orange logo of the Rigogo Company, waste disposal professionals. He couldn’t quite see their slogan, which he knew was there, but it was famous enough for him to know by heart.

Another load off your mind.

Goggles affixed, Ubik heaved himself out of the shaft and scuttled across the surface, weaving between the mounds of scrap that had yet to be flattened by repeated impacts. As he ran, he threw out small discs that attached themselves to the nearest metallic surface.

Ubik had a thin gauze covering the bottom half of his face to prevent inhaling the dust but he could still feel the metallic particles in his throat. He had been using an industrial filtration mask until recently but it had broken.

That was the problem with living in an age where novelty was valued over durability. There was no point using the best quality components when you knew the usage expectancy of a device was far less than its life expectancy — it would get thrown out long before it fell apart. The customer satisfaction of secondary users like Ubik was not a factor worth considering.

Ubik wasn’t the only one who kept an eye on the arrival of shipments to the facility. He could already hear the buzz of drones hovering over the dust cloud, waiting for it to clear so they could target any unauthorised visitors in this restricted area.

Even if the authorities had no use for the broken and unwanted items that were dumped here, they had no intention of allowing anyone else to make a profit from what was now their property.

Occasionally, a sanctioned collection unit would come in search of particular materials that had been located and tagged by specialised drones, but by and large it was not worth the effort. It was always cheaper to buy new, unless you couldn’t even afford cheap and had to rely on what you could get for free. Free, assuming the drones didn’t make you pay in other ways.

Why they insisted on making life difficult for someone like Ubik, he had no idea. Did it really make a difference if he helped himself to the flotsam and jetsam others had discarded?

Whatever their reasons, they were committed to defending their property. But not as committed as he was to taking it.

Ships arrived on a regular schedule, every hour or so for the rest of the day. At night, they would move onto the waste facilities on the other side of the planet. Not to avoid disturbing the locals’ sleep — nobody cared about that — but because visual telemetry was a lot cheaper than trying to make accurate drops in the dark.

In the past, ships had been decked out with the most advanced electronics available. But electronics required maintenance and repair. Modern pilots for spaceships were augmented tech-fliers who relied on organics to navigate. The number of pilots who had multi-visual capability was limited, and they didn’t fly junk ships.

Small dark spots moved in the corner of Ubik’s vision. The drones were on the move.

Ubik knew every inch of this district of E4-J, knew where the best hiding places were, where the radiation was high enough to interfere with sensors, where the ground had turned to mush and wouldn’t support his weight.

He also knew that the morning ship from Darragut-492 was his best opportunity to claim high-quality electronic goods. Eden was the most technologically advanced planet in the sector, and also the most profligate.

Ubik had never been to Darragut — he’d never been off-world — but he had seen VODs. If Epsilon-416 was the dustbin of this quadrant, Darragut-492 was the precious oil painting, hanging in pride of place. It also had the highest number of registered organics.

What they threw away on Darragut-492, anyone else would have gladly paid good money for. The newest, the most expensive, and out-of-date by exactly one iteration. Every time a new model of anything came out, you could safely assume thousands of the previous model would appear on E4 within a few days.

The detector vibrated in Ubik’s hand. The black polycarbon tube was as long as his arm, even with most of the backend sheared off. It was meant to be mounted on the nose of a military frigate, able to withstand enemy fire and light-to-medium impact hits. Ubik had learned to tell the difference between military hardware and commercial. If it had come from a mining ship there would have been a lot more wear and tear. This one was in near pristine condition. Military ships were built for show, mining ships were there to work.

Ubik had set the device to detect a specific metal found in the latest generation of communicators. Latest bar one, that was. Ubik had no need of a new phone — he had no one to call — but the nanochip the phone contained was just what he needed to complete the repair of another item. Repair was perhaps the wrong word. Upgrade might be a more accurate term.

Ubik moved quickly, jumping over areas he knew to be unstable, landing lightly and constantly moving.

The dust was starting to clear and Ubik recognised he was in the right area by not being able to recognise his surroundings. The landscape shifted every time there was a fresh delivery.

The detector buzzed loudly, letting him know he was close to his target. He turned it off so as not to give his location away.

Up ahead, communication implants glittered in the light of the morning sun. They had conveniently landed in a pile, probably gathered from a single housing unit which were hundreds of metres high on Eden, and contained residents in the tens of thousands. Hundreds of implants, small discs with two wires on opposite sides, like a small pyramid of gems.

Electronic implants weren’t as good as organic ones, but then people didn’t throw away organics.

Ubik scooped up as many as he could fit into the bag clipped to his belt. There were other items lying close by, but Ubik ignored them. Now wasn’t the time to browse.

He heard the drones overhead. The distinct sound of their targeting mechanism was hard to mistake, especially after being targeted as many times as he had.

Ubik pulled out a short rod from a pouch strapped to his leg. He planted it in a hole in what looked like a mangled kitchen sink and flicked the top off the stick of red metal with his thumb.

The surrounding area became heavily ionised. Scraps of metal began vibrating and shaking all around him. Ubik waited. Any movement would alert the drones of his presence. The latest models didn’t have human controllers, relying on their own onboard scanners to identify targets. Newer models would be here by next week, maybe even able to detect his base under the rubbish. He planned not to be here by then.

The drones would wait, of course. They had infinite patience, as long as there were no other possible targets. Ubik waited for the ionisation to spread, slowly gently, working its way around the piles of trash until it reached one of the disks he had thrown out earlier.

A metallic scream to the left was followed by a small explosion. Then another, and another, forming a chain reaction. The drones shot off to investigate. Ubik grabbed the rod and ran in the opposite direction, throwing out more disks.

Enaya was the third and last planet from the star Solaris II. Its prominence in the Third Quadrant was down to its stunning scenery, its stable civilisation — one of the oldest in the quadrant — but mostly because of the wormhole that stretched out for several million kilometres, filling most of Enaya’s sky.

Anyone could enter the wormhole, if they had a suitable ship, but they could only control where they would come out by using the controls on the asteroid that floated just outside of the wormhole’s gravitational pull.

When people referred to it, they called it Tethari, but that wasn’t the asteroid’s name. The asteroid had no name, it was just the asteroid, a stationary lump of rock that should have drifted off through space, but for some reason didn’t. Tethari was the name of the city, left behind by the Antecessors, or the best approximation of the word over the city gates, written in an alien language no one truly understood.

The controls to the wormhole were on the first level of the city. They had taken decades to decipher, and mainly by trial and error. Travel to anywhere in the galaxy was possible. Anywhere in the universe was also possible, but no one had managed it. Or, at least, no one had come back to confirm it.

The asteroid was owned by the rulers of Enaya, which currently meant the Ollo Dynasty. They controlled the asteroid, which meant they controlled the wormhole. They were also responsible for guarding the city of Tethari. Many people had tried to take it for their own, but not so they could take command of the wormhole — anyone who paid a small fee was allowed to go where they wanted — but because of what lay beneath the city.

Tethari was built deep into the asteroid. Seven layers deep at least. Human technology couldn’t penetrate any further, but the size of the asteroid meant there could be dozens more levels beyond the seven.

The second level had taken seventy-eight standard years to clear. The Antecessors had left behind defence systems so lethal and so alien, it had cost thousands of lives to overcome them. But there had been no shortage of volunteers. The rewards were considered worth the risk.

No one had ever managed to enter the third level.

Hard, white sunlight fell through the window of Figaro Carmen Ollo’s bedroom, offering little warmth as it fell on his face. The curtains had been drawn and the window pane raised. He could hear the groundsmen at work outside, and smell the freshly cut grass.

Figaro lay in his soft, warm bed with his eyes closed. Today would be the last time he lay here. The sounds, the smells, this was the last time he would wake to their accompaniment. Life here would go on without him, nothing would change with his absence, but this room would be empty.

He felt a movement on the other side of the bed. He opened his eyes and turned his head.

“Can I get you anything, Master?”

Ellie, one of the chambermaids, was lying on her side, on top of the bed sheets, her head propped up on one arm.

“Not right now,” said Figaro, not quite fully awake and unable to understand why there was a girl staring at him from the next pillow.

“You really do have lovely hair,” she said. “So… silvery.” Her hand reached out to touch him.

Figaro leaned away. “Um, thank you.” Figaro wasn’t a big fan of his hair. He didn’t think of it as silver, he saw it as white, like an old man’s. It was from his mother’s side of the family, the same in colour as hers. It looked elegant and pretty on her. “Why are you in my bed?”

“I am not in your bed, Master. I am on your bed, ready to serve.” She was a small, dainty girl who had been working for his family for several years. He wasn’t sure how old she was, but probably around the same age as him. He hadn’t really spoken to her much, as far as he could recall. She did her job competently enough. Usually.

“Why are you on my bed? Don’t you usually wait until I wake up before you change my sheets?”

“Yes. But today is your last day here, and I wanted to speak to you, Master, honestly and earnestly.”

He didn’t like where this was heading, but he didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings by kicking her out. “Since when did you start calling me ‘master’?”

“I have always called you master, Master. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention?”

“Hmm. Maybe. You don’t have to call me that. You’re an employee here, not a servant.”

“But I like calling you master. Don’t you like it?”

“No, not really.” Figaro sat up. He was wearing pyjamas but he still felt a little exposed next to this odd girl. She had never been this familiar with him before.

It occurred to him she might be an assassin. He had been warned to be wary of strange women who were suddenly friendly towards him. His status meant he was a prime target for kidnapping, but it would take a larger effort with more people to sneak him off the grounds. A simple murder would be a lot easier to accomplish, although there was little to be gained from his death. Revenge? His father had enemies, but none that would be so brazen as to attack him in his own home.

“You aren’t angry, are you?” said the maid, also sitting up.

“Angry about what?” said Figaro.

“That I’m seducing you.”

“Oh,” said Figaro. “Is that what you’re doing?” He really hadn’t realised that was her plan, but saying it out loud made it sound like he was mocking her, which wasn’t his intention.

She pouted and seemed like she might say something abrasive to him, but her shoulders sagged before she could spit it out. “You don’t think I’m attractive?”

“You’re very pretty,” said Figaro, feeling uncomfortable with this whole situation. “I’m flattered that you would make me your seduction target. Thank you.” It probably would have been better to be more blunt, but her eyes were so big and full of hope, he didn’t have it in him. He was disappointed in himself. What kind of future ruler would he make if he couldn’t even deal firmly with a chambermaid?

“Good, then let me speak plainly, Master. I realise a man in your position will take a wife of suitable rank and status.” She was speaking like she had rehearsed this speech many times. “A fine woman who will bear you many heirs.”

“Um, yes. Well, I suppose so.”

“But a man in your position,” continued Ellie, “will also probably have many mistresses and concubines.”

“Will he?” said Figaro. His father didn’t have any, as far as he knew.

“Of course,” said Ellie. “It’s perfectly normal. So I wanted to put in my application now.”

“Application?” Figaro wasn’t averse to being intimate with a young woman, even one well below his social standing, but it usually happened more naturally. No one had offered to put in a formal request before. “For mistress?”

“Yes, for mistress or concubine.”

“I see. Um, the thing is, my ancestors, they did some pretty terrible things when they first settled this planet. Slavery, oppression, tyranny, you know, the stuff we don’t like to talk about.”

“But that’s all over now,” said Ellie. “No one blames you for that.”

“No, no. And thank you. But it wouldn’t really look very good if I was to take advantage of someone like you to satisfy my, um, carnal urges.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Ellie, eagerly leaning forward, her eyes even bigger and more hopeful. “We don’t have to tell anyone. I can keep a secret.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it. But I think it would be best if you found a decent young man to settle down with and raise a family that you didn’t have to keep secret.”

“But I don’t want a decent man, I want you. Oh, I didn’t mean it like… Oh, what have I said.” She suddenly looked very distressed and red in the face.

“It’s fine, really. Look, just put it in writing and I’ll keep your application on file, okay? And if I do ever decide on taking a mistress or a… a concubine, I’ll be in touch, alright? Do you think you could you run me a bath?”

He usually took a shower but it seemed the easiest way out of this situation.

“Yes, Master,” she said with a delighted look. Had he just made an agreement he would regret? She scampered into the bathroom, followed by the sound of running water.

Figaro rose and went over to the balcony. He opened the double doors and the sharp sunlight prickled his brown skin, which he got from his father’s side of the family. The wormhole, a black swirl in the pale blue sky, looked down on him, but his eyes were on the large white cruiser hanging silently over the palace. A shuttle was landing on the main pad, its engines making no sound, but dust and debris flying up around it.

He watched as it touched down, then sank onto its belly. A door folded open, turning into a gangplank. The Seneca guards disembarked first, every one of them an organic, every one a trained killer, every one of them female. They formed a gauntlet for his mother, heavily pregnant. She descended slowly, flanked by her two personal bodyguards.

Mother had come to see him off. Which meant Father would be in a bad mood. He hoped they wouldn’t combine to give him indigestion at the breakfast table.

“The bath is ready, Master,” said the maid. “Would you like me to help you wash? I’m very good at washing, and polishing. I think you won’t be disappointed.”

She was making a strange shape with her mouth. He hadn’t seen it on a woman before, but it appeared she was leering at him.

“No, that’s fine. Just put it down in your application. Under skills and attributes.”

He shuffled sideways past her into the bathroom. She followed him in. He gently pushed her out and closed the door. And then locked it.

The Liberator Garu, an H-class colony spaceship, housed slightly more than fifty thousand souls. It kept a permanent solar orbit around the twin suns of the second quadrant, Kelidon-1 and Kelidon-2, taking three standard years to complete a double orbit, a figure of eight around both stars.

Ten kilometres in length and four across at its widest point, the ship was a city floating through space.

Solar energy powered the ships propulsion and other systems, including the shuttles and defence craft that swarmed around it. There were also the remora, the ships that followed in the Garu’s wake, using its immense gravitational drag to travel the same course, visit the same worlds and feed off the Garu’s discards. Some considered them parasites, others thought of them as a part of the Garu’s ecosystem.

Movement provided gravitational forces that allowed the inhabitants of the huge vessel to move around as though they were on the surface of a planet, although the strength of gravitational pull varied, sometimes erratically.

Usually, it was somewhere between zero and two standard Gs, depending on where the ship was in its orbital path around the two stars. Where in orbit you were born was thought to have a profound effect on the kind of person you would grow to be, although the data on how true that might be was patchy at best.

The Garu had been on the same journey for over four hundred years. Before that, it had been stationed around another star in Quadrant One, the dead quadrant. The ship had been built as an escape transport during the Great Exodus that marked the end of humanity’s first wave of stellar expansion. It was built to save as many lives as possible before Plenus IV imploded. The white dwarf’s core had become unstable seemingly overnight, although it took several decades to reach crisis point. No one was able to determine why the star had collapsed, neither could they explain why it collapsed so slowly, continuing to fold in on itself to this day.

The effect of the slow implosion, termed the Keiger-Platt Effect, created a form of radiation so hostile, it made the entire quadrant uninhabitable and turned any kind of electrical device inoperable. Even organics would not function inside Plenus IV’s sphere of influence.

The Liberator Garu had been intended to deliver its human cargo to a cluster of inhabitable worlds in the fourth quadrant, a journey that would take one hundred and fifty years to complete. Many generations would be born and perish in that time, and the population was expected to grow, although strict regulations were meant to keep the numbers manageable.

As it turned out, the time spent as a spacebound community created its own culture, and a series of unforeseen events meant it was not possible for the ship to reach the original target location. With some engineering ingenuity, the ship was converted into a permanent colony rather than merely a transient one.

In time, as repairs and extensions were made, the ship became twice its original size. Still heavily regulated, and governed by a ruling elite, the Garu became both a home for the descendants of the original evacuees, and a place that conducted trade and commerce with the planets it routinely travelled within range of on its triennial orbit.

An insular, extremely-competitive population produced many talented individuals who became known for their effectiveness both as soldiers and scientists. Their services became highly sought after, although their ruthless methods were routinely the cause of dismay and sometimes outrage.

The Garuvian maxim ‘Defend the people’ defined ‘people’ as only fellow Garuvians. Other humans weren’t considered worthless, but they were considered worth less.

Hollet 3.2 was the second child of the third wife of Commander Hollet, who was the first child of the first child going all the way back to the original Mikail Hollet, who was part of the crew at ship’s launch. This lineage enabled 3.2’s father to keep his predecessor’s name intact. 3.2, or Point-Two as he was more commonly known, would not have that privilege when and if he started his own family. His elder half-brother, Hollet 1, would take the family name on their father’s passing, although the old man would probably live to a hundred, just like his father before him.

Such matters were not of concern to Point-Two, currently, even though he was twenty-three. Most men onboard had at least one wife by that age. Point-Two had little interest in settling down, even though there were many benefits and inducements to do so. The population of the Garu had slowly been dropping over the last several decades as young men in particular saw no real prospects for advancement within the strictly hierarchical society they had been born into.

The ruling class weren’t about to loosen their grip on their power, but the level of comfort onboard was enough to keep most people satisfied with their lot. It was a safe yet varied existence that a life outside of the Garu could not guarantee, and almost certainly would fail to provide. You had the chance to achieve more in the rest of the galaxy, but you also risked losing more, including your life. No one would rush you into medical care if you fell ill on an alien world in some far reach of the cosmos. On the Garu, your life was precious, and all possible measures would be taken to preserve it.

Still, many left to find their happiness elsewhere. Occasionally, they might return. If they did, it wasn’t usually as great successes come to share their wealth and tales of grand accomplishments.

Point-Two ran up the wall, across at a ninety-degree angle to the designated floor, and came down behind his close friend and current opponent, Gibber 3.4.6.2, commonly known as Geezy.

His movements were elegant and effortless in the reduced gravity of the training room, swiftly switching between surfaces as though the room was spinning to accommodate him.

Geezy was dressed in light-division competition gear. Point-Two was in a vest and loose running bottoms. His bare feet landed silently behind Geezy, his hand hooked under his friend’s chin and lifted him off the ground. Point-Two arched into a reverse bridge to throw Geezy backwards.

Geezy, who was taller and heavier than Point-Two, went slowly sailing through the air and landed in a roll, coming up with his tag gun pointed at where his assailant should have been. Point-Two had used the momentum of the throw to launch himself onto the room’s ceiling and was now running upside down, at least from Geezy’s perspective.

“That’s cheating,” called out Geezy, in a voice full of frustration.

It wasn’t cheating, but it shouldn’t have been possible, even in a 0.6 G environment.

Geezy raised the gun to line up his target, but he was leaning so far back he was in danger of falling over.

The rules gave him six shots to hit his target and he only had one shot left. His fear of missing kept him waiting for a guaranteed hit. His opponent had no weapon. This exercise was to help Geezy improve his shooting and his awareness of his surroundings. As such, it was pretty successful. His misses were getting closer to their target.

Geezy in no way expected to win and was doing his best to last longer than his previous attempts. Even a half-step closer to keeping up with Point-Two would help him surpass every other player in his own league.

Point-Two dropped from the ceiling at an angle, struck the opposite wall with both feet and pushed off. He came hurtling like a missile straight at Geezy, who fired at nearly point blank range. And missed.

Anticipating the shot, Point-Two twisted and the laser marker flew by him. He grabbed Geezy’s outstretched wrist and twisted his body so he tumbled in mid-air and landed on his feet in a crouch, Geezy’s gun in his hand.

“I knew it was a trap, but how could I resist an open headshot like that?” complained Geezy.

“How could you miss?” said Point-Two with a grin, handing back the gun.

Geezy looked up at the ceiling. “How did you remain inverted for so long?”

“It’s just timing. You have to use your momentum correctly.”

“You’re too good, man. You would crush if you entered the tournament.”

“Yep, top gun in a sport nobody else in the quadrant plays. My legacy would be assured.”

Point-Two and Geezy exchanged surprised looks. Neither of them had given the command to change the gravitational setting. They both grimaced as their bodies adjusted to the increase in weight.

“Gravity adjustment zero point nine. Gravity adjustment is now standard.” There was a ping to indicate there would be no further changes.

The training room had two doors, one at floor level and one at ceiling, connected by a ladder bolted to the wall. The lower door opened and two people came in wearing heavy-division battle gear in pristine condition. The colours they wore, yellow, orange and brown, identified them as members of the Distré family.

“Hey,” said Geezy, “we’ve got this room booked for another twenty.”

“Get out of here, scrub,” said the shorter of the two men. “Priority booking. You can both clear out.”

Their gear was the most expensive available. Geezy’s, by contrast, was wearing one of his brothers’ castoffs, scratched and scuffed on every available surface.

“Come on,” said Point-Two, “let’s go.”

Geezy sucked in his lips but he knew they had no choice but to vacate the room when someone with higher status wanted it. That was how life on board the Garu was. Background made all the difference, and neither one of them had the type that mattered.

As they left the room, the taller man said, “You’re that Hollet kid, aren’t you? The one who thinks he doesn’t even need to suit up to G-tag anyone. Want to exchange a few moves with me? I’m a Diamond League player.”

A helmet came flying through the air at Point-Two. He could have dodged it quite easily but he let it strike him with a resounding thunk, causing a gash to appear on his forehead. Blood spurted out. Point-Two didn’t make a sound, didn’t even flinch.

The thrower looked shocked. He hadn’t expected Point-Two to not react at all.

The human diaspora claimed Epsilon-416 more than two thousand years ago. The first settlers saw it as a potential farming planet. Geologists identified the flat, nutrient-rich orange soil as suitable for supporting plant-life, with a B+ rating. The atmosphere was breathable, with some minor adjustments, and the water supply was more than adequate, once treated.

Various names were chosen to make the small, drab planet seem more inviting as a destination for settlers — the galaxy was vast and human colonists were limited in number, and very much in demand.

Golden Amulet. Fertilum. Homestead. None of them stuck and it was always referred to by its astronomical designation, Epsilon-416, when it was referred to at all. E4, if you were in a hurry.

More settlers were eagerly expected but never arrived. There was nothing wrong with Epsilon-416, there were just better options in the area. At least six planets that offered everything E4 did, but in larger quantities and better quality. Prettier planets with richer biodiversity and better views. It was what people wanted. Not just bigger harvests, but a world they could enjoy living on, with something to do on the weekends.

E4 did have one major thing going for it, it was centrally located, making it within easy reach of all the other planets. A convenient spot for trade, if that was required (it wasn’t), and also a handy place to drop waste.

No one wanted to store their rubbish in landfills or in huge mountains of garbage. The more advanced materials could be recycled, but the process was prohibitively expensive for outer worlds, where resources were used to make money, not save money. It was cheaper to buy and replace than it was to repair or recycle.

The settlers of E4, who were barely able to scratch out a living, decided to turn their planet into the quadrant’s junkyard. Everything the other planets didn’t want, they could dump on E4, for a modest fee.

The planet was barely populated, a small rock with a lot of empty space. After only a few years of a paltry arable existence, E4 was repurposed into a giant rubbish tip. A very successful transformation, from a business standpoint.

It took less than a century for the entire planet to become swamped with other people’s refuse, earning it the nickname Planet Garbage. A name that stuck, although the locals preferred Epsilon-416, which they’d decided wasn’t so bad after all.

The money generated attracted people. Not the brightest and the best, but smart, enterprising people who could see there was a market to be exploited. And the trash just kept coming.

The approach to waste management was so successful, other quadrants followed suit, sometimes choosing to reclassify a planet as a waste facility without bothering to consult the inhabitants.

While the cost of recycling waste was high, there were still ways to make use of what other people had discarded. A lot of items weren’t even broken, just no longer fashionable. The economy of the galaxy was built on owning the latest and the most advanced technologies available, both from a functional and a status point of view. No one wanted to be the person with the outdated communications device or vehicle or anything else. Humanity’s need to keep up with the Joneses had not changed just because they’d learned how to travel to the stars.

Ubik had been born on E4, or possibly dropped off by a passing ship. He couldn’t remember his parents, although he was sure he had at least a mother. Probably. Somebody had fed him until he could do it himself, and then they had disappeared.

The first ten years of his life were spent running around the streets of Silon City, the biggest city on Epsilon-416, and the dirtiest. It was loud and brash and smelled terrible, but you could find food and water relatively easily, as long as you didn’t mind it being half-eaten or half-drunk.

The next ten, he spent developing his talent for electronics. He was a natural, and he had an endless supply of components to work with.

He had no school to go to, although he did find a teacher. Or the remains of one. You could find all sorts of things in a junkyard, even the soul recording of a dead woman. It wasn’t her actual soul contained inside the black cube, it was her knowledge and wisdom left for her children and their children — a database you could access by voice command and ask the dead what they had learned while they lived. A common enough device the deceased left behind for their loved ones.

She was nobody special, not a genius or a famous inventor, but she had been a competent engineer, and she had been able to answer most of Ubik’s technical questions, back when he needed answers. She had seemed quite pleased to be asked, even though that wasn’t technically possible.

He had no idea how old the recordings were. It could have been several generations down the line when her family decided they had nothing to learn from their past, and had consigned the bequeathed treasure trove of information to the trash heap of history. Or, to be more specific, Collection Zone E4-Jericho. Home, as Ubik called it.

Even if her knowledge was outdated and her homespun wisdom about the meaning of life cringeworthy, she had provided Ubik with far more than technical data.

Ubik lived in a bunker he’d built himself. Or maybe he’d found it and moved in, it was all a bit vague in his mind and he didn’t consider it very important in any case. The past was what you left behind, after all.

The bunker was a pocket of air under a field of garbage in Zone E4-J, a convergence of support structures that had fallen against each other that prevented the space from collapsing. There were properly built structures on Epsilon-416 — cities and towns with shops, schools, places to eat and have fun — but you needed money to live in a real building, or a family. Ubik had neither.

He did have the best alarm clock in the galaxy, though. Every morning at 6 AM standard time, a freighter would arrive from Darragut-492, also known as Eden, and fire its stabilisers over Ubik’s abode before opening its bay doors and dropping several hundred tons of trash from about 200 metres up.

Ubik’s home was moderately secure. Years of hammering from above had compacted and fixed his walls and roof in place. The occasional item might come loose and fall on him, but that was why he was always up and under his bed as soon as he heard his morning alarm.

His bed was a panel from an S-class space liner, made of lithogen, a very tough and very expensive metal. When new. Once it fell off a decommissioned ship, it was just junk.

It was made to withstand solar storms, so a falling toaster wouldn’t do much damage. There were no sheets or pillows and no mattress. Ubik slept on the panel when he was tired, used it as a table when he was working, and hid under it when the ships came to dump their cargo. It was a basic piece of metal, but it served a variety of uses, which was what Ubik preferred in all his equipment. Multi-purpose.

“Reeeeee!”

The whine of the stabilisers woke Ubik from his dreamless slumber. Without having to think, he rolled off the panel and slid under it.

He grabbed the soul cube, which he kept under his bed, and swiped it on. “Morning, Grandma.”

She wasn’t his Grandma, but she was somebody’s and it was what she answered to.

“Morning, my dear. Nice to see you up so early.”

He always got up at this time, and it was what she always said. She wasn’t really talking to him, she was just responding to his voice-activation from one of a set of preloaded generic answers. He turned the cube off to conserve power. He had a lot of electronic buried in here with him, and it all cost juice to run. Grandma didn’t have anything to teach him about electronics anymore, but it was still nice to greet her every morning. He had known her longer than anyone else in his life.

The sound of falling debris lasted about twenty standard minutes. The ship had been directed to unload close to his part of the junkyard this morning. The walls shook and groaned.

Ubik had slept for two hours, which was about normal for him. He didn’t like to be unconscious for any longer than absolutely necessary. He had alarms and sensors set up to warn him of drones or humans in close proximity, but they sometimes failed. He was at his most vulnerable when he was asleep.

The floor trembled and the pulsing intensity told him there were some particularly large items being delivered for his inspection today. Probably vehicles of some kind, which weren’t particularly useful to him as transportation — he had nowhere to go — but they often contained fuel cells which he always needed. He took slow breaths in and out and centred himself the way Grandma had taught him, settling into the darkness.

If you could control your breathing, you could control your mind, and the rest of the body would follow.

Grandma had been quite a strong believer in ancient philosophies and arts when she’d been alive. A student of the way was how she referred to herself. He had never been able to figure out what that meant, and there was apparently no explanation in her database, but he had learned that if he followed her instructions, he could get away with two hours of sleep a night.

Today was Threeday, he vaguely remembered. That meant the ship evacuating its bowels overhead was the Merlin Vance, an old battlecruiser refitted to perform junkyard deliveries. Not a very illustrious end to a distinguished career defending the quadrant, but better to make deliveries to a junkyard than end up in one.

Did they leave old spaceships floating in space or was there a planet somewhere where they dumped the ships they no longer had any use for? That would be a place he would like to visit. The pickings would be rich for sure.

Ubik’s bunker was deep underground with numerous exits so there was always a way out if the falling rubbish caused a collapse of a tunnel or two. The ships were directed to different parts of the junkyard to drop their cargo, so the chance his den would take repeated hits wasn’t very high. It was a manageable situation.

Once the heavy rain stopped and the engines kicked into vertical shift, Ubik crawled out from under his protective bed-table-shield and got his goggles and his high-beam detector from a metal chest covered in dents.

The detector had come from a frigate class ship, designed to inspect debris fields to make sure they weren’t hiding mines or other electronic devices. Ubik had stripped it down and turned it into a handheld device, which reduced its range by around 5000 km, but the accuracy remained dead-on. Perfect for scanning a field of junk for salvageable items.

Ubik turned on the lamp attached to his goggles and shone the light into a tunnel to check for signs of collapse. There didn’t seem to be any obstructions. He dived in head-first, off to start the morning’s work. He would be the first out there, but he wouldn’t be alone for long.

“What if the machine breaks? What if I float in nothingness for eternity? I fear being alone, Mother. I fear nothingness.”

“You remember the exercises I taught you to relieve your anxiety? Use them now. Slowly. Yes, good. Deeper. Accept the dark. Move beyond the possible to the inevitable. You cannot fear what does not exist, you fear only the dread of it. Cast aside that dread. Slower. Good. Nothingness is not a thing to be spurned. It is part of us. Without nothingness, we could not function.”

“I will be dependent on the machine.”

“The machine will not fail. And even if it did, you would never know it. But it will not fail you. You are going to go to sleep for a very long time, that is all. And then you will wake. When you wake from sleeping, do you grieve for those lost hours? No. Do you dread to lay down your head again? No. You will not be aware of the passing of time, you will not know any pain or torment, and you will awaken in the future.”

“How far in the future?”

“You know there is no definitive answer to that question. No one knows. No one can know. But you will awaken, I promise you, and you will have your whole life ahead of you.”

“I have my whole life ahead of me now.”

“No, you don’t. None of us do. The end comes. We cannot stop it. We cannot resist it and we cannot outrun it. We can only send you to travel beyond it. With your revival, so shall we be revived. Now lie back.”

“But why did it have to be me?”

“You know why.”

“Maybe I am not the best person to send.”

“You are according to the test.”

“Maybe the test is wrong.”

“The test is never wrong.”

“I would rather stay here with you.”

“Then you would perish with the rest of us.”

“Death is nothing to fear, Mother.”

“Ha. What a bright little star you are.”

“Little, Mother?”

“It is a term of endearment, my love.”

“I am several orders of magnitude larger than you.”

“And yet you fit perfectly in my heart.”

“I will miss you, Mother.”

“And I, you. I am already jealous of those you will rule. They will truly be blessed to serve one as you.”

“Maybe there won’t be anyone there when I wake.”

“They will be there and their numbers will be unending. You have seen the simulations. You will never be alone. They will be waiting for you, even though they might not know it until you appear.”

“What if they do not wish to serve me?”

“Then you will hammer their arrogance until it is transformed into humility. They will be created for no other purpose than to serve you, and they will know their purpose in the light of your presence. You are the mirror in which we will be reflected. In you, we will be seen again. The distance between our demise and the next great civilisation is too vast for us to reach them in any other way — only you can bridge that gap. Only you can save us all, my child. I think the reason the universe created me was so that I could create you. You are perfection, the one thing the universe in its unremitting chaos is helpless against. Nothing will be able to prevent you from completing your mission, my darling, my saviour, my hero.”

“You are the greater hero, Mother. You should have made a machine to save our people, not to send me into the dark on a timeless errand.”

“There is not enough energy in all the stars of this universe to accomplish that, but there will be in the next universe. When you wake, you will find a way to harness it.”

“And if I never wake, I will never know it.”

“It is unlike you to be so morbid. Take a deep breath. Deeper. Find your place in the dark. Claim it, it is yours. Again. Deeper. Now sleep. Tomorrow belongs to you, and only you.”

The universe died in a sudden release of energy as every star in existence exploded. The waves of radiation spread in concentric ripples, colliding with each other in four dimensions, creating an inescapable lattice of annihilation. All matter was dissolved, apart from a single ship jumping into the dead space created where erupting energies cancelled each other out for a fraction of a second, moving at bewildering speed to another and another as the lattice expanded, dodging extermination by the grace of calculations so perfect the universe had no way to resist.

The ship carried a solitary existence that was unaware of how close to nothingness the ship flew. The existence slept, undreaming, as a new universe was born.

The ship waited as stars and planets emerged from the impenetrable centre of time and space, filling the void with a greater intensity and more diversity than its previous incarnation, ready to push the boundaries of what was possible.

And when the process was near completion, as stars found their place in the dark and planets began to cool in preparation of their destinies, the ship exploded, sending out fragments of life in all directions, usurping the plans of the universe’s creators with its own.

It was not, Nic had to admit, a very affectionate way to address the man you loved, the man whose proposal you had accepted, the man you intended to raise a family with. She was looking at with no emotion whatsoever.

“Um,” said Nic, raising a hand like he was in class, “if you’re here for Miss Delcroix, is it alright if we go ahead? We’re late for class.”

His request was ignored. The minister and Dizzy were locked in some kind of battle of nonchalance. Nic was not sure what their relationship was, but for some reason he was more curious than dismayed.

Simole was the only one to notice Nic’s raised hand. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled the arm down, giving it a squeeze at the same time. She looked disappointed in how Nic was handling the situation, or possibly in the size of his bicep.

“What are you doing?” she said into Nic’s ear, her lips practically touching his lobe. “You can’t leave. Look at him! He’s your rival. Don’t you feel your manliness rising to the surface?”

“Delzina,” said Minister Carmine, “please, it’s Mol.”

“Mr Carmine,” said Dizzy with civility and patience — this was going to go very badly, “I’d appreciate if you could get to the reason you’re here. As the boy said, we are late for class.” Now he was ‘the boy’? At least she remembered he was there. “What do you want, minister?”

Oddly, she didn’t sound annoyed or irritated, the way she did when she spoke to Nic. When speaking to her fiancé, she sounded distracted, like she was already thinking about what she was going to do next. It was actually quite rude, even though her voice was perfectly courteous. The minister didn’t seem to mind, though. Or was acting like he didn’t.

“Now’s your chance to win her heart,” whispered Simole. “Challenge him to a duel.”

Minister Carmine looked to be in excellent shape. A military man, Nic guessed. He was tall, his hair was pulled back from an aristocratic face, and his shoulders were broad. He had a sword at his side that didn’t look like it was there for show. The scabbard was plenty scratched and scuffed, but it still looked well cared for — glossy and polished.

“Those books you read about romance and heroes and forbidden love,” Nic whispered back at Simole through the side of his mouth, “they aren’t historically accurate.”

“Men didn’t use to duel over the love of a woman?” said Simole, sounding disappointed.

“No, they did. I mean the part where the weaker man finds a way to win because his love is true. That part never happened. The smaller, weaker, more in love man always died.”

“So you’re going to give up?” said Simole.

“Give up what?” he snapped at Simole despite himself. “I was never even in the race. Do you really think I imagined there wouldn’t be others interested in her? The way she looks, her family background, her boundless spirit? Frankly, I’m surprised there haven’t been more, but she’s still young and she has her natural defence against people who try to get too close to her.”

“You mean her personality?”

“Exactly,” said Nic, finding it encouraging to have someone recognise the situation for what it was for once. “My only real advantage has been that I don’t mind how mean and nasty she is.”

“I get it!” said Simole. “That’s why you always provoke her into saying terrible things. The more horrible she is, the less likely anyone else is to want her. Eventually, she’ll be an old maid desperate for any kind of attention, and that’s when you’ll pounce, you wily old fox.” She slapped him on the shoulder with a cupped hand, which he pretended didn’t hurt.

“It’s not like I make her say terrible things.”

“No, no,” said Simole. “I understand. You didn’t create the monster, you just leave out raw lumps of bloody meat so the monster never goes hungry.”

“Well, I suppose you could put it like that, although—”

“Ahem!”

Nic turned towards the monster, or rather towards Dizzy, who was no longer talking to Minister Carmine. She was now looking at him like he was a lump of bloody meat.

“He isn’t my fiancé,” said Dizzy. “That’s just a joke my father would make to irritate me.”

“Oh, Delzina, no, no,” said Mol Carmine. “I assure you, your father often spoke to me about how he saw you and I as the ideal couple. He was a very forward-thinking man. He had your future all planned out, and I was to be a key part of it.”

“Please don’t interrupt when I’m talking,” said Dizzy, glancing in the minister’s direction for a fraction of a second. Then the full weight of her attention was back on Nic.

Simole nudged Nic with her elbow. “It’s like you don’t even have to try, isn’t it?”

There was no rancour in the way Dizzy was speaking to her prospective fiancé but it was all the more dismissive for it. She was treating him like his claim wasn’t even worth considering.

If she had reacted to Nic like that when he first arrived at the school, he probably would have packed his bags and left the same day. Which made him wonder why she hadn’t. He quickly stamped down that kind of thinking. Hope was the greatest enemy to rational thinking.

“Okay, we’ll leave you to it,” said Nic, trying to move away towards the school gate. Simole stood in his way, not trying to stop him, but not letting him by, either. He leaned into her shoulder to shove her aside, but she was immovable.

“Didn’t I tell you not to go off without me?” said Dizzy, her eyes igniting now that she had turned towards him.

Behind her, Minister Carmine seemed disappointed to have lost her attention. He didn’t know how lucky he was.

“Ah, but class…” Nic pointed towards the school.

“Yes,” said Dizzy. “Wait.” She turned back to the minister, who didn’t seem so sure of himself any longer. “Mr Carmine, my father was indeed a forward-thinking man, but he also raised me to make my own decisions. The only choices he made on my behalf were those he expected me to challenge. If he wanted to put you forward as a suitor, it would only be to see how I would get out of it. I’m sorry he used you like that, but I’m sure it wasn’t personal. The fact he found you useful at all is something you should cherish.”

The men around Minister Carmine, large brutish soldiers of the Ministry for Instruction, intimate with countless forms of torture, looked uncomfortable and like they wished someone would sound the retreat.

“Delzina,” said Carmine with deliberate gentility, “I can’t say for certain what your father intended, you knew him better than I, there’s no doubt about that, but I was at least someone he considered of appropriate standing to be matched with you. Can’t you at least give me a chance to impress you? I feel no shame in admitting I have been smitten with you ever since we first met.”

“No,” said Dizzy. “I don’t have the necessary emotional reaction to you.”

“Love can grow when two people are suitably aligned in their intentions,” said the minister with a depth of feeling Nic could only imagine he would come to regret.

“I’m not talking about love,” said Dizzy. “I’m referring to respect.”

The minister was a little taken aback. “Then let me prove what I’m capable of and then judge me. As the acting-minister, I plan to—”

“You aren’t listening,” said Dizzy. “How you perform as a minister is irrelevant. My lack of respect for you is based on your interest in a girl half your age, not even finished with school.”

“That’s your objection?” The minister’s face registered his confusion. “But it is perfectly normal for a man to court a younger woman. It happens all the time.”

“For a man to be ‘smitten’ with a child, he must have a fear of women his own age, who might stand up to him. A young girl is easier to manage and dominate — the younger the better. I don’t respect you because I consider you to be a coward, as all men who prey on young girls are. It is not love you seek, it is a victory, and an easy victory at that.”

“No, come on, really,” blustered the minister, his men shrinking away in their desire to not be present. “You can’t believe that. Do you really think I see you as someone easily dominated?”

“Easier than someone with all my traits but fully grown, wouldn’t you say? If you wish to impress me, find a woman of firm convictions of your own age, and impress her. Lead by example. Choose the highest difficulty, not the easy option.”

The minister seemed to grow paler. His men were still at his back, but they offered him no support.

“But the heart wants what it wants…” he said in a slightly strangled voice.

“That is poor justification for ignoring what is appropriate.” Dizzy turned around and walked towards Nic.

Nic turned around and walked into Simole, immovable as ever.

“Where do you think you’re going,” said Simole. “This is just starting to get interesting. I think you’re next for the chopping block.”

Nic had been worried that the ministry would send someone capable of dealing with Simole — they knew her power and it would be foolish to take her on without some kind of plan — but it appeared Simole was not the one to be concerned about.

Perhaps the minister did have a counter to Simole, but a counter that wasn’t needed was just extra weight you had to carry. He didn’t have a counter for Dizzy, that much was clear.

“Mr Tutt,” said Minister Carmine, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, “before you go, might I have a word?”

Would he vent his frustration on Nic? Wouldn’t that be preferable to having to suffer whatever Dizzy had in store for him?

“Yes, okay. In private?” he asked hopefully.

“Here is fine,” said the minister. Nic felt the man wasn’t going to allow Nic the privilege of a private interrogation after his own public flogging. “I understand you are returning from the Royal College. Could you elaborate on what happened to make you rush there in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, the Father of Dragons was dying. I expect all the other dragons will soon be dead, too.”

Carmine lowered his hand and opened his eyes. “How did you know about the High-Father?”

Nic suddenly couldn’t recall what lie he was currently standing behind. He went for the vaguest possible explanation. “I have a link to him, or I used to. It’s gone now. He is no longer in the dragon’s body. I don’t know where he is right now.” What he was saying was more or less true. He expected the minister to be too interested in the future of the Ranvar’s dragons to press him on the minor details.

“Link?” said Dizzy. “What link?”

He really needed a counter to Dizzy of his own.

“It’s not really a link, just a vague connection. A feeling.”

She glared at him, not believing a word. Why did it feel like she already had a counter to him? The dispassionate serenity she displayed when conversing with the minister — who had tried to waylay her entire future by forcing her into a marriage of his personal convenience! — was nowhere in attendance when Nic merely mentioned an inconsequential relationship with a demon or two.

“What kind of feeling?” pressed Dizzy. “Where did it come from? Who put it in there?”

The minister looked like he would have liked to ask the same question, and vaguely embarrassed that he had been beaten to the punch. If he planned on spending his marital life with Dizzy for a partner, he would need to move a lot quicker; or get some help.

“It’s not like that,” said Nic. “I mean…”

“The demon,” said Simole. “He had a demon in him for a while. You probably read a report on it.”

He didn’t send Simole a grateful glance — that would have been too obvious — but he thought it strongly and hoped it would find its way to her.

She was talking past Dizzy, to the minister, who was so pleased to be included he nodded his head like a dog waiting for a ball to be thrown.

“Demons leave a kind of mental residue, don’t they?” said Simole, tossing the ball to Nic.

“Yes,” said Nic. “Not so much a residue as a hum. In the back of my head. Bit annoying, really.”

“That wasn’t in the report,” said the minister.

“No?” said Nic. “The Archmage may have redacted it.”

Between Dizzy’s pummelling and Simole’s ever-present threat of doing something unpleasant, the minister was caught off-balance. Nic had never met him before, didn’t know the kind of man he was under pressure, but riding into the enemy line was very different to facing off against the combined forces of Girl A and Girl B. Nic knew which he would prefer.

“Perhaps so,” said Carmine.

“All I know is that the High-Father is no longer at the Royal College,” said Nic, “at least not in his dragon form. I was drawn there and the Archmage sent me back here. If you need to know more I’m sure he’d be happy to explain. He’ll be able to do a much better job of it than me. He’s the Archmage.”

Nic hoped he wasn’t overplaying the poor lost soul caught in matters beyond his comprehension. It usually worked because it wasn’t that much of an act. And Carmine was probably inclined to believe. Nic was inclined to believe it himself.

“Do you know my father?” asked Simole, stepping up when needed.

“I have met him once or twice,” said Carmine. “I doubt he recalls it.” He had regained a little of his composure. His men seemed relieved things had moved on from being lectured to by Dizzy. “And do you happen to know how to prevent the dragons from dying?”

The question was posed in such a way as to suggest the answer was no, and that asking it was merely a formality to establish Nic’s lack of knowledge. The minister needed to prove he wasn’t the least informed person here, and trumping Nic was the obvious, and possibly only, way to do it.

“You can’t, not unless the High-Father chooses to let them, and even then I’m not sure it’s possible. He doesn’t have the Arcanum. In fact, the only place he could find that much raw Arcanum is probably Gweur.”

“Gweur?” said Carmine, his interest genuine now, the posturing gone. “What do you mean?”

“The Gweur fanatics, they were using raw Arcanum. I think they were probably stockpiling it, judging by how heavily dosed they were. I don’t know, maybe they knew this would happen and that the dragons would be caught short. If they can find a way to bring the dragons to them, they might be able to save them. But then, they would have control of them.”

Nic hadn’t really thought about it, but talking to Carmine was like when he explained things to Davo and Fanny, and in the process revealed new thoughts on the subject to himself. It was actually quite enlightening to talk without too much scrutiny. There was a freedom to it. Although he wasn’t sure why the minister was staring so intensely.

“Did I say something wrong?” asked Nic.

“No,” said Carmine. “But you think the Gweur rebels want us to send in our dragons?”

“I don’t know,” said Nic. “But they’re all too weak now, aren’t they. If that was their plan, they must have mistimed it. Or they have another way to get to the dragons. If I were them, I would probably set up an obvious target that would bring our forces to them in an attempt to wipe them out in one go, or heavily disable them, and use that as cover for sneaking in over the border.”

“But they would be sacrificing a large number of their own people if they did that,” said the minister. He seemed tense again.

“I’m sure they’d have plenty of volunteers,” said Nic. “The old and injured, mostly, although they would present them as the heroic and the wise, key targets for us, break morale, smash the command structure. It’s quite an old tactic for insurrectionists. Historically, it only works once every generation or so. If it isn’t successful, it takes a long time to raise the numbers back up to useful levels for an effective insurgency, and a competent occupying force won’t let that happen. Ranvar’s a prime example of—” An elbow in the stomach brought Nic up short.

Simole gave him a look to let him know he was digressing to no practical purpose, which she often did, especially around lunchtime.

Nic returned his attention to the minister, who looked quite pale. “You haven’t just sent a strike force into Gweur, have you?”

“I’m sorry, I have to leave. Please, take care of yourself, Delzina. I hope we can talk again.” He turned and rushed away, his men following. They mounted their horses and raced off.

“So,” said Simole, as they walked through the school gates, “Dizzy tried to chase old Mol off by questioning his ability to do an impressive job in the appropriate manner, and you, Nic, tried to chase him off by suggesting his attempt to do his job in an impressive manner may not have been appropriate.” She nodded. “I can see that you both immediately and without mercy undermined the poor man’s confidence, and did quite a good job of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Dizzy.

“I was just speculating,” said Nic, “based on the accounts of Ranvar’s foreign policy over the last four hundred years. I just happened to be reading up on it recently.”

“Sure, sure,” said Simole. “Remind me to never believe a word either of you say.”

“We’re very late for class,” said Dizzy. “Mr Periwinkle won’t be happy.”

“No need for concern,” said Simole. “I’m sure you’ll both still pass. It’s not like he’ll be testing your sincerity or common decency.”

“I think you’ve got it all wrong,” said Nic.

“Do you?” said Simole. “Or is that just what you want me to think?”

The school grounds were empty and quiet. Everyone was in class except for the three of them. As they passed the girls’ dorm, the two girls suddenly veered off. “We’ll meet you there.”

After insisting he not go off on his own, Dizzy had ditched him anyway. He could have avoided the entire incident with Minister Carmine.

Was that what he would have preferred though? Nic had found it interesting observing someone else who had recognised Dizzy’s qualities. If it wasn’t for his age, Dizzy might even have reciprocated the interest. He was certainly the kind of man who could help her develop. He had the right connections, the right type of experience.

Five years from now, the issue of age would be of no importance. The problem was that she had caught his attentiveness five years ago. It made the whole thing creepy. Then again, his own interest in Dizzy went back ten years. It was a good thing they were the same age, or he’d be the one attracting suspicious looks.

“She is worth the effort,” said a voice in his head.

“But am I?” said Nic.

“With a little work.”

“I thought you had finished with me,” said Nic.

“No, I was just taking a moment for myself,” said Winnum Roke. “It’s strange being back after all this time. And I think I deserve a moment to celebrate. Things have gone remarkably well so far.”

“They have?”

“The High-Father has been ousted, the Archmage is preparing to gather his forces, the disgruntled neighbours are massing at the borders… yes, I think all in all things are going about as well as could be hoped for.”

“Congratulations,” said Nic. “I hope it all works out.” He was still the boy on the sidelines, being dragged along behind the people racing ahead of him.

“How well it works out will largely depend on you.”

“Will it? I think we may have a problem, then. I have no power to influence what will happen.”

“Not yet.”

Nic stopped at the steps to the main second year building. “What do you mean?”

“You were right, my thousand-year-old knowledge may not be worth very much now, but my time in the Other Place was not entirely spent lounging around, you know. They have two things on their ship. An astounding amount of Arcanum, and a library full of knowledge they have collected from all the worlds they have visited.”

“A library?” said Nic.

“Yes. A thousand years was barely enough time to get through a fraction of it, but I learned a lot. For example, there are other ways to harness magic. Did you know that?”

“Without a demon?”

“Yes.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Perhaps. But what would really help would be to have some help sorting through all the knowledge I’ve collected.”

“Help?”

“Yes, someone who knows how to quickly find the relevant article from among thousands.”

“Like a librarian?” said Nic.

“Exactly,” said Winnum. “One that isn’t too busy right now. Who is free to go where she wants while the High-Father is otherwise occupied.”

Gigantic trees with hard white trunks rose around them, creating a feeling of walls beyond walls. This place was called the Jade Forest, not because of the greenness of the foliage, which was indeed very green, but because of the effect it had on the light. Yellow sunlight streamed in through the canopy and was instantly transformed into emerald beams that shifted and danced in complex patterns as the branches above swayed in the wind.

It was a bright and uplifting experience to walk through the forest’s domain. No gloomy shadows where beasts might lurk or rotting plants fermented. The whiteness of the bark was bathed in cheerful, sparkling green light.

“This is a very weird place,” said Simole. “I feel like I should be skipping.” She placed her bare feet on the protruding white roots of a large tree and plucked a white flower from the ivy that ran up the trunk.

“How far would you say the village is?” said Dizzy. She was keeping pace with Nic and had to keep stopping to let him catch up.

“Hammersham?” said Nic, even though there was no other village she might be referring to. “I’m not sure. 2 km?”

“I make it 2.6,” said Dizzy. “And how long do you think it will take us to get there at our current speed? The limiting factor being the person who is the slowest, obviously.”

Nic walked past her without needing to check where she was looking when she said that. “The terrain doesn’t allow for swift movement.”

The ground was hilly, full of slopes bestrewn with exposed tree roots. Running would guarantee tripping.

“Your movement, perhaps, but that isn’t something we can do anything about,” said Dizzy. “Not right now, in any case. You have to make the best of the hand you’re dealt. How long?”

“Okay,” said Nic, not seeing why it would matter. It wasn’t like they were in a race. The people they were doing their utmost to avoid would either have the means to catch them or not. First, they would have to figure out where their targets were headed, which was the real limiting factor. If they knew that, they would probably be waiting for them in Hammersham, and getting there quicker would only mean being apprehended sooner. “We should still be able to get to Ransom by lunchtime, assuming we can hitch a ride.”

“I’m still not sure why we’re avoiding them,” said Simole, from up ahead. She had been behind, looking at flowers a moment ago. Now she was standing in a cascade of rotating viridian beams, wearing a crown of white blossoms. “They probably just want to ask a few questions. What’s going on? What are you up to? What makes a boy like you so special? The same things we all wonder.” She jumped into the air and vanished. And then reappeared in the same spot with a handful of purple leaves — not magic, just the play of light in the woods. She opened her hand and the leaves flew away. Not leaves.

“I can’t quite explain it,” said Nic, “but it’s more than that. They want to investigate more thoroughly than pose a few questions. They want to do it out of sight of the other departments, which can’t be a good thing. Do you know who’s in charge of your father’s old department?”

“No,” said Dizzy. “He was training a number of people for the role. One of them probably. Two hours and twenty minutes,” said Dizzy. “I think that’s ample time for you to go over everything that’s happened to you since you arrived at Ransom. Not everything, just the salient points.”

“Salient?” said Nic.

“Salient to me,” said Dizzy. “You know me so well, just narrow it down to what you think I would like to know but you’d rather I didn’t.”

Nic could see her point. She had been left in the dark for most of what had happened and now, here she was with time to kill and the boy with all the answers. If only.

“It would slow us down if I had to stop and summarise everything.”

“You can’t walk and talk at the same time?” asked Dizzy. She was surprisingly calm, which was worrying.

“I can, but I’m trying to focus my breathing and regulate my pace, like you taught me. I’m still getting used to it.”

“Perhaps I should carry you on my back,” said Dizzy. “Or in my arms.”

Nic stopped. It wasn’t really fair to not tell her what the situation was. She was involved, she had a right to know. Once he told her, she would be in a better place to make a decision as to what she would be willing to do, and not to do.

He realised he didn’t want to do that. He wanted her to need answers.

“It was your idea to come,” said Nic. “I didn’t ask you. You can always—”

“No,” said Dizzy. “Don’t even. My father died because of whatever this is. You were there when he died. You think me being here is a choice? You think playing the mysterious hero is going to work on me? Considering how well you know me, it wouldn’t surprise me if the only reason you allowed yourself to get involved with any of this was because you knew it would appeal to my sense of outrage and injustice. Throw yourself into the raging inferno and watch eager little Dizzy rush to join you. Was that why you dragged my father into the inferno with you?”

She hadn’t spoken very loudly, but the intensity of her words hit him like hailstones.

“No. I didn’t plan any of that.”

“Plan, no. But take advantage of an opportunity — isn’t that your speciality?”

Had he done that? Certainly, he knew her well enough to know how attractive his predicament would be to someone with her proclivities. Maybe not consciously, but as a way to leave a little bait on the line while he dealt with other matters? It wasn’t entirely unfeasible.

“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?” said Simole, standing beside Dizzy. How had she moved so far and so quickly without being noticed? Another trick of the light? “To think he would manipulate the end of the world just to get you to notice him. What kind of a madman would risk so much for a little attention? From you, of all people.”

“I think you’re missing the point,” said Dizzy, not rising to Simole’s own baiting. “It isn’t that he would do something so reckless, it’s that whatever he did, it worked. Here I am, after I made the firm and final decision to stick to my own path. I don’t like to be manipulated. I like it even less when I had no idea it was happening. Frankly, I’m embarrassed it’s taken me this long to realise. But now that I am aware of my failure, I don’t intend to compound it by pretending I’m still in control of my own destiny.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Nic. Whether or not I was manoeuvred into this position isn’t up for debate. Who is behind it is what I’m asking. If it isn’t you, then who? And if you don’t know, then I think it’s only right you reveal what you do know so that others with a sharper, more objective outlook can make sense of what you can’t.”

Nic found her argument compelling. If he had a full understanding of the situation, then he would be well within his rights to pick and choose what he revealed to her. It would be for a considered choice on his part. But since he didn’t have a full understanding, he wasn’t doing her any favours. His silence was as likely to hurt as protect.

“I have Winnum Roke inside me,” said Nic.

“Yes,” said Dizzy. “We know that. A repository of all her knowledge which would have helped you cheat your way to top place in the next school exams if the Archmage hadn’t removed it.”

“Not really. A lot of her knowledge is a thousand years out of date.” He waited for Winnum Roke to comment, but she remained silent. He felt a twinge in his temple but that could have been for unrelated reasons. “And I said have, not had.”

“She’s still there?” asked Simole.

“Yes.”

“But my father—”

“Was wrong,” said Nic. “Or he wanted me to think so. I don’t know what he really wants. I think he’s more likely to align himself with the High-Father than…” He wasn’t sure how to put it.

“Than humanity?” said Simole, finding the words for him.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Really, it’s very hard for me to keep track.”

“So, she can still take control of you,” said Dizzy.

“No. I told you, she can’t do that.”

“According to her,” said Dizzy. “You don’t know what she’s really—” She stopped mid-sentence and scowled.

“What?” said Nic.

“Your eyes. Why are they red?”

“Oh, yes,” said Simole, leaning to get a better look. “Are you going to shoot fire out of them?”

Nic tuned away, blinking and wiping his eyes. “Stop it,” he mumbled. “It’s just cosmetic. She does it to annoy me.”

“She passes the test,” said Simole. “Tell her she can be part of the gang.”

“This only proves what I’ve been saying,” said Dizzy. “You don’t know what she can do. What else, Nic? What else are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing. If you’re being manipulated into this situation, so am I. It would be flattering to think I was capable of such immense duplicity, but I have a long way to go before I graduate to that level of control over a situation. Over any situation.”

Dizzy nodded, and then threw a punch.

Nic dodged, leaning back and almost losing his balance. He stumbled but remained upright.

“What are you—” He couldn’t finish before a low leg sweep came in as Dizzy crouched and spun all in one motion. He had to leap out of the way.

“You’re right,” said Dizzy, rising and switching to a high kick. “We are both being targeted. We are both the limiting factor, here. Simole is the only capable one, and we are holding her back.” Her leg came down sharply, missing Nic’s ear by a fraction. “We need to be better, train harder, act quicker.”

“You won’t improve without serious incentive, Nic. I need to stimulate your adrenal response. Can you feel the stimulation, Nic?”

Dizzy twisted left, then right, using the momentum to corkscrew her body into a driving right-hand punch aimed at Nic’s sternum.

Nic raised his hands to block but she was already shifting her weight to go in low with her left fist, probably aiming to crack a rib or two. He had anticipated the feint and ducked to his left.

“Use the opening!” shouted Simole.

His unexpected move had put him on her right with her arm pulled back, leaving him with a clear shot at her midriff. He instinctively lashed out and felt his fist connect with her chest. It was soft and his hand sank in. His eyes widened as he realised where he had hit her.

Dizzy let out a strangled, “Oof,” and fell back.

Simole began to scream, with laughter. “I can’t believe it… You finally got to touch her in an intimate place, and you punched her in the tit.” She fell on the floor and howled. “Enemies!” she managed to call out in between gasping for air. “If you’re out there, attack now. I’m helpless. Helpless!” She went back to rolling around on the floor.

“Sorry,” said Nic, horrified at what he’d done, and where he’d done it.

Dizzy looked up at him, one hand holding her breast, her hair fallen across her face and her eyes ringed with shade that was entirely naturally produced.

“It’s fine,” she hissed. “It’ll just be a small bruise.”

He reached out his hand to help her up but she slapped it away.

“Sorry,” he said again. He felt like he should keep saying it, but that would only annoy her more.

“You won’t know your real enemies as well as you know me. You won’t be able to predict their moves and get in a lucky hit.”

“Lucky hit,” said Simole, wiping the tears from her eyes. “So lucky. You two are priceless.”

Nic looked at Simole weeping with laughter. She was taking all this in her stride, maybe even enjoying being part of momentous events that left him feeling out of his depth and utterly inadequate. He noticed how her hair was much darker than Dizzy’s, but the strip at the back was streaked with blue and red. People would know who she was, recognise her in a crowd.

“Why are you staring at her?” said Dizzy.

“I wasn’t,” said Nic.

“You were. You were staring at her hair. Do you like her hair?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s interesting.”

“I see,” said Dizzy. She began walking, roughly rubbing her right breast.

Simole got up breathless and headed after Dizzy, flicking her hair as she walked past Nic.

They carried on towards the village of Hammersham, with Nic and Dizzy unable to look at each other, and Simole sniggering to herself.

They exited the forest and the light sank to a drab grey by comparison to the Jade Forest. Farmland appeared before them, stretching in all directions. Not flat and well organised, these were crops sewn on hills and slopes, mottled hues of green and mud. Ranvar was not famed for its agriculture. The land was not very fertile and most of the produce consumed by the population was imported from their neighbours.

Nic took it all in at once, everything in sharp focus. He saw people, he saw plants, he saw the village not very far, a collection of a dozen or so buildings, their pointed roofs nestled together, he saw it with total clarity.

“Are they here?” said Nic. “I don’t see them.”

Simole closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t think so, but I’m not that skilled at surveillance. I specialise more in seek and destroy.”

Simole pointed at Dizzy’s chest. “The swelling. It makes one bigger than the other.”

Nic followed Simole’s finger, and his pinpoint vision revealed the contours of Dizzy’s body in explicit detail. Simole was right, there was a slight unevenness now.

Dizzy looked down at herself and then back at Simole. “Shut up. And where are you looking?”

“Huh?” said Nic. “I wasn’t… I mean nowhere. She pointed it out.” He turned to point at Simole.

“Don’t blame me for your lecherous male libido,” said Simole. “Hey, why don’t you even them out? Punch her in the other one.”

Simole’s unwelcome laughter accompanied them as they walked down the flat and dusty road, with tracks running in grooves to indicate the frequent carts that travelled this route.

The square in the middle of the village had a small fountain, a plain block gurgling water, as a centrepiece with a basin that allowed easy access for animals to drink from. There were stone benches scattered about but no sign of any people or wagons.

“I hope we aren’t too late,” said Nic. He had spent quite a lot of time researching Ransom’s surroundings before he first came to the school. He knew what the land around the school looked like and what purpose it served.

There were numerous small villages that relied on the school for their livelihood, providing food and supplies as Hammersham did. Nic had often seen deliveries arrive at the school, the wagons often carrying the name of the company they belonged to, and incorporating their home location.

Hammersham supplied mainly vegetables. The daily delivery usually reached the school by eleven in the morning. It was past nine already. It had taken a little over an hour to get here thanks to Nic’s eagerness not to fall behind and have to face Dizzy.

“Looks like we’re right on time,” said Simole as a loaded cart came trundling down another road and stopped outside the tavern. The rider, a middle-aged man with a limp, tied the horse to a hitching post and went inside.

“He might not be going to the school,” said Dizzy.

“Everything from here goes to the school,” said Nic. “Ransom is an integral part of this region’s economy. The larger towns and cities get all their food from abroad.”

“So you’re saying they should feel grateful to us and give us a free ride anywhere we want?” said Simole.

“I hope so.” Nic looked at the cart which had wooden crates stacked on top of each other. He sniffed the air. “Carrots.”

“You can smell vegetables at a distance now?” said Dizzy. “What other powers do you have?” Her tone was mocking, which made Nic feel a little irritated. Not with her, she was well within her rights to mock him. He was more irked by these strange, pointless changes he was undergoing. Why couldn’t he have access to something useful?

“Ignore her,” said Simole. “She’s only jealous of people like us. We’re special, Nic. I can create fireballs and level castle walls with a thought, and you can sniff out carrots at fifty paces. The world fears what it doesn’t understand.” She grinned at him.

Dizzy shook her head slowly. “She’s right, I am jealous. I just wish you’d give me something to justify the way I feel. Carrots.”

“Is it really necessary to belittle me at every opportunity?” said Nic.

“We’re not belittling you,” said Simole. “We’re keeping you grounded.”

“Why?” said Nic. “I’m already on the ground.”

“For now, maybe,” said Simole.

“And who’s going to keep you grounded, Simole?” said Nic.

“You are,” she said. “I’m tethered to you, aren’t I?”

“You were,” said Nic. “Not anymore.”

“No?” said Simole, smiling. “Whatever it is you’re going through, Nic, you are still changing, I can tell. Today it’s a sensitivity to carrots but tomorrow, who knows, maybe parsnips.”

“There are countries whose whole economies are dependent on potato crops,” said Dizzy.

“Exactly,” said Simole. “You’d be a god there.” She was enjoying herself so much, he didn’t have the heart to stop her. Not that he knew how. “You don’t know when this new power of his might come in handy. What else can you smell, Nic?”

Nic took in another breath through his nose, and caught another scent. “Spirits.”

“You can smell ghosts?” said Dizzy.

“No,” said Nic. “Alcohol.”

Nic left them and headed into the tavern, which was called “The Hammer and Horse”. It was bright and clean inside, and a welcome respite from having to listen to two girls amuse themselves at his expense.

A small throng of villagers was gathered around the bar and didn’t pay attention to the new arrival. Nic tried to spot the cart driver who had just entered. He was their best chance of getting a lift to the school, otherwise it would be a long walk with two mean girls. It would be a grim journey.

“A sheep faces a hungry wolf,” said the barman. “The sheep offers the wolf her lamb to sate his hunger. Is she wise or is she evil?”

The patrons, each with a drink in hand, made their opinions known all at once until one said, “She’s probably next on the menu, the daft bint,” and they all fell about laughing. Everyone was having a good time today.

“Ah, looks like we have guests,” said the barman, a thick-set man with heavily-veined hands which he used to push his customers aside. “Come in, come in. Not seen you here before. Welcome, welcome to the historic village of Hammersham, young master. Famed for our root vegetables, the like and size you won’t have seen before, I’d be willing to wager.”

The group at the bar had turned around to look at him, which made Nic slightly uncomfortable. He smiled and nodded. “Good morning.”

They were all men, all with a slightly grubby, dusty look to them. Nic’s understanding of farming was that you woke early and worked until the sun went down. He wasn’t sure what roles these men played, but they didn’t appear to be in any great hurry to get back to the fields. Perhaps they had finished for the day.

None of the men said anything. They weren’t being hostile, as far as Nic could tell, just mildly curious and maybe a little drunk. Then their demeanour changed. Nic sensed the two girls enter from behind him, and the men stood a little straighter, their glazed eyes clearing.

“We’re from Ransom,” said Nic. “The school.”

“Oh, yes?” said the barman, who had apparently been made the designated speaker for the group. “And what might you be doing all the way out here?”

“We were travelling back from the capital,” said Nic, “and our carriage had an issue. We need to get back to the school and I saw there was a cart outside. Is it headed for the school? I know you make deliveries there.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” said the barman. “You’ll have to ask Old Mecky, here.” He jerked his thumb to the right and the patrons on that side parted to reveal the driver eating at the bar, stuffing food into his face. “He’s a bit of a miserable bastard, so he’ll probably tell you to sling your hook. Hey, Mecky, some kids looking for a lift to the school.”

Old Mecky looked up and took in the three at the door. He didn’t seem that old, although his face was decidedly miserable. “I don’t deliver kids, just carrots.” He went back to eating.

“I told you,” said the barman. “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat? Our cook is known for her fine cuisine.”

The men laughed at some private joke. The food the driver was eating looked delicious, and made Nic’s stomach growl.

“I’ll take care of this,” said Simole, stepping up to the bar.

Nic wasn’t sure if he should stop her. What was she planning to do, and how much damage would it cause? These people didn’t deserve to have their lives disrupted because of matters that had nothing to do with them. Then again, neither did Nic.

“Here.” Simole put some coins on the bar. “We’ll pay for a ride.”

She was using the other form of power in Ranvar — money.

Mecky looked at her and turned and spat on the floor. “Keep it. I transport what I want. Sling your hook.”

The barman rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. Life has been unkind, so now he does likewise to others. There’ll be another wagon along in a bit, Radlinski and his turnips, you’ll probably do better asking him.”

“When?” asked Nic.

“Couple of hours,” said the barman.

They could walk or they could wait. Neither was ideal.

As Nic pondered the options, Dizzy walked to the bar and sat on a stool. “Can we have three breakfasts and something to drink? Anything without alcohol in it.”

“You should try the beer, then,” said one of the men. His fellow patrons burst into raucous laughter.

“Hey, now,” said the barman. “That’s not fair. I have feelings, you know. There’s no call for that sort of thing.” Then he turned around and shouted through an opening in the wall. “Hey! Three more breakfasts, and make it quick you fat-arsed dolt.” He turned back to Dizzy with a smile. “Won’t be long.”

Simole slid one of her coins across the bar, which the barman scooped up.

“Travelling from the capital were you?” said the barman. “Quite the detour you must have taken to end up here.”

“We walked through the Jade Forest,” said Nic. “It was the most direct route.”

“Aye, that it is,” said the barman. “But dangerous, what with all the beasts running around in there.”

“What beasts?” asked Nic.

“Oh, many different types. It’s the carnivorous spiders you have to watch out for, mostly. Been known to jump down from the branches onto the necks of their prey and gnaw into their veins, instantly drowning in blood.”

Simole tapped the coins on the top of the bar and returned her attention to Old Mecky, who was still eating.

“You sure you won’t change your mind? You won’t help three lost lambs? Don’t you have children of your own?”

There was a gasp from the gathering.

Old Mecky put down his cutlery, his plate still half full, and looked at the barman. “I’m going to the john, and then, after I’ve had a nice long shit, I’ll be off. Put my meal on my tab.” He turned and stalked off. He seemed upset.

“What?” said Simole, looking around and settling on the barman.

“You’ve hit on a bit of a sore point, there. Not a subject that will help you win over Old Mecky.”

“No? Why not?”

“Well,” said the barman, “I’m not one to gossip or interfere in other people’s business, but poor Mecky here has what we around here call a trollop for a wife. Sad, sad, sad.”

“Why is she a trollop?” asked Dizzy, in an icy tone that made Nic want to ask for his breakfast to go.

“It’s all ancient history now,” said the barman, leaning across the bar, “so I’m sure he won’t mind me telling you. Back before you youngsters were born, Old Mecky was a soldier, you see. Off to fight at the King’s pleasure. Quite the fighter, our Mecky. Got himself badly injured, nearly died but they kept him alive using who knows what kind of sorcery — the army, they employ wizards, you know? — and came back after years of honourable service to find his wife round as a giant pumpkin. We’re well-known for those around here — pumpkins, I mean.”

“Another man’s child?” said Dizzy.

“Had to be, didn’t it?” said the barman. “He was off fighting on the front. Sad, sad, sad. Of course, that’s not what she claimed. Said it was his child, that she’d visited him in the field hospital when she heard he was at death’s door. One last time, she’d said. That’s how it happened. But he was in no state to do something like that. And if he had, he’d remember, wouldn’t he?”

“What happened to the child?” asked Dizzy.

“Ah, even sadder. Miscarriage, poor thing. She never had another.”

“And they’re still together?” asked Simole.

“Of course,” said the barman. “Man of his word, our Mecky. If he says through sickness and health, he means it. Won’t go back on a promise, no matter how miserable it makes him.”

“Did she stick to her story?” asked Nic.

“Always, and bitterly,” said the barman.

“She probably wasn’t lying, then,” said Nic.

“Oh, and how do you figure he got her pregnant from his deathbed a hundred kilometres away?”

“She thought he was dying, she went to visit him,” said Nic. “She must have dreaded losing him, probably because it would mean she would be left with nothing. What’s the rest of the family like? Would they have taken her in and let her have what was his?”

“No, no. Not a generous soul among them, to be honest.”

“I’d guess she was the newest member of the family at the time, and not well-liked. She needed a child to make her their responsibility. She went to him, and found a way to, uh, arouse his passion, even if he was unaware of it. That kind of thing is possible, if you’re determined enough, I think.” The men around him made noises of agreement. “She might not have done it out of love, maybe it was purely selfish but she wasn’t unfaithful. Just desperate.”

“Well, well, well,” said the barman. “Quite the education they give you at that school.”

The room fell silent as three plates of food slid through the hatch behind the bar.

“We’ll need to go now if you’re coming,” said Old Mecky, standing by the entrance. His face was no longer miserable, it was something else. Something less certain. He turned and left.

Nic looked at the other two, and then hopped off the stool and rushed after him.

The ride to school was uneventful and quiet. The driver didn’t speak other than to occasionally offer his horse some word of encouragement.

They sat on the lowered tailgate, rattling along with the rest of the cargo.

“Don’t look so forlorn,” said Simole. “There’s so much to look forward to.”

“Is there?” said Nic. His gaze drifted to Dizzy on Simole’s other side.

“You feel guilty for dragging her into this? Don’t be. Doesn’t it sometimes feel like the way you feel about her was forced on you?”

“Yes,” said Nic, surprised.

“Of course it was forced on you. Why would you choose to be miserable? Someone wanted you to like her.”

“Who?” said Nic.

“Who? Her, of course. She seduced you at five years old. Trollops come in all shapes and sizes. She did it to see if she could, and did a far better job of it than she intended. Overachiever.”

“I can hear you,” said Dizzy. “And if you don’t shut up, I’m going to rip off both his arms and beat you to death with them.”

“Don’t worry,” said Simole, “she’s joking. She wouldn’t really be able to beat me to death. Not with your puny arms.”

Nic’s head dropped forward. “I will grow stronger, especially at running, so I can get away from both of you.”

“You were right,” said Simole. “He just needed the right stimulus to motivate him.”

“He’ll need a lot more than that,” said Dizzy.

The road was moderately flat and straight, and the journey took about an hour. The school appeared in the distance, as did the small group of horses off to one side.

It wasn’t surprising that the ministry men would wait for them at the school gates. Rather than give chase, they merely had to let the three students come to them. But it was close enough to the school that the Secret Service would be aware of them, hopefully.

The cart stopped and the three of them jumped off. The driver looked at Nic, didn’t say anything, and then headed into the school. You didn’t question men from the ministry. Any ministry, but particularly not this one.

A man stepped forward, surprisingly young, but clearly in charge.

“Delzina, so nice to see you.”

“You know him?” asked Simole.

“Yes. He was one of my father’s protégés.”

“Yes. I am very sorry for your loss, my dear. I am Mol Carmine, acting-Minister for the Ministry of Instruction, and Delzina’s fiancé.”

“What?” said Nic.

“Oh,” said Simole. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations, Dizzy. You’ve found the stimulation you were looking for.” She clapped her hands and grinned with delight.